‘OK, sorry to bother you.’ I walked away, embarrassed by the volume of our conversation. I moved a few blocks out of the area to a shaded tree with a bench, where I sat down to recover and mentally regroup. This was mad. I was feeling stressed and agitated, as well as worn out and hungry, as I’d had no time to eat at Hank’s, what with my hasty departure and the study anxiety.
I thought about passing the time by trying my luck in some other houses, but decided against it. I knew what I looked like – I’d been examining my facial injuries in the driver’s mirror in the cab on the way over. Although they had improved in terms of swelling, they wouldn’t help with my gaining access into the houses. I waited for twenty minutes, which in the circumstances felt like far too long. I was confident that the Brotherstones would be back soon, given the shoes outside.
I got up and wandered off in the direction of a wider, busier street that I hoped would lead to shops, food, phones and a beer, perhaps. Around fifteen minutes later I found a parade of shops and a tiny, cute, toy-looking train station.
I was hot and tired from carrying the folder that I had now lost complete interest in. My selling days felt over; I’d lost my spark, I was worn out inside and tired of feeling rootless. I longed for the foundations that the other people – who went to and from the shops in their family cars, carrying newspapers and bread – took for granted. I went into a bakery, feeling stressed at the light banter exchanged between the vendor and his customers.
‘And how are you today, love?’
The ‘happy love shit’ was wearing me down every day now, and I felt myself turning against Australia by the second.
‘Yes, all right, thanks.’
‘What can I get you? That looks nasty.’ He was referring to my bruised face.
‘Yes, it is very nasty.’ I deliberately missed out an explanation. ‘Just a cheese roll, please.’
He bagged me one up without saying any more and I left. Outside I looked for a place to sit. I walked back to the train station and wandered onto the platform, where I took a shaded seat and ate my roll, watching people around me. A train pulled up on the dinky little platform opposite. I saw a handful of housewife-types and mothers with babies get off. I looked for any potential relatives and fixed on a woman around my height, maybe in her mid-forties, with dark hair like mine, watching her as she walked along, oblivious to me.
I longed for dusk, and a post-selling-day drink with the group. I hated this bright domestic day shit, and all those no doubt settled and fulfilled people waiting on the platform for a train to take them somewhere they felt they belonged. The lady who looked the most like me was the last to climb up the stairs and then she disappeared out of sight.
I scrunched up the bag my roll was in into a ball and threw it at a garbage bin by the station steps. If it landed in it, then I would meet my mother today.
It landed inside, and I found some new resolve.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to a man standing in the waiting shelter. ‘Where is the nearest bar?’
‘Oh, now, that’ll be the Fern.’
‘Oh yeah? Near, is it?’
‘Just few minutes down there, second on left, right next to a dairy.’
When I got to the gate at the entrance to the station, the lady I had been staring at was waiting, and I got a closer look at her. She wore a uniform, maybe of a hospital auxiliary nurse or dental assistant. She had a name badge and was obviously waiting for someone. I tried to move nearer to her without making her aware of me. We were the same height, and she had glasses and short brown hair.
As I stopped and pretended to rummage in my folder, she looked over at me. My eyes flicked up but I couldn’t make out the name on her badge. A green station wagon pulled in with a Garfield stuck to the back-seat window. She smiled, got in, and it drove off.
I knew I was clutching at straws with this kind of behaviour, but I felt that I had little choice now but to go with it.
The Fern was a typical small suburban pub with no character or golden-oldie section on its jukebox. I had noticed that the old-style jukebox that had been around from the seventies and early eighties was being phased out in many places in favour of a depressing, futuristic-looking one, which looked like pages of an open book. I put on the Bangles’ ‘Eternal Flame’ (the best of a rum lot) and ordered a midi of Foster’s. There was only me and two old guys in the bar, but however substandard it was, it offered me some sense of peace and respite from the outdoor daytime world I didn’t fit into.
I paused before my beer, thinking that perhaps it was a bad idea, on top of the state of me, to smell of drink on the doorsteps – but then I ignored those concerns in favour of feeling more reassured by its effect. I lit up a Marlboro Light and took a long slow drag on it and an even longer blow out. I gulped the midi almost in one, as I wanted an immediate result, then ordered another, which I vowed to sip.
The jukebox volume was disappointingly low and drowned out by a fruit-machine jingle and some clutter from the kitchen, no doubt the noise of making the roast-chicken lunch advertised outside on a chalked board. I looked up at an advert on a turned-down TV attached to the wall in the right-hand corner. A man stood on a doorstep with a box of washing powder, charming a smiling housewife who let him wash her clothes with it. The old men looked up at the screen with me. I felt so much better after my beer, warmer and safer inside, and more positive again.
I got out my notebook and the piece of paper from Hank’s folder with the name on it and the suburb I was in. I prayed inside for guidance to whatever I prayed to, which wasn’t a god, but more like my strength and my beliefs in things leading me to things. I looked back up at the TV to find Joyce Cane advertising her carpet showroom, which appeared to exist in Brisbane also. That’s when I knew I was back on track and in the right place.
I asked the barman to look after my folder while I went to the toilet. In less urgent times I would have tried to palm off some of its contents on him, but decided instead to use the time productively by raiding his Tampax machine, which contained a well above average amount of coinage. I downed the rest of my beer, thanked him and left.
I leant against the wall across the street, chewing gum and staring at the white station wagon, which earlier I’d seen pick up the nurse woman. It was now parked outside the Brotherstones of 15 Weaver Avenue. I longed to have someone with me to witness and experience all this coincidental madness. I was so close now, and glad of the beers that had steadied my nerves slightly.
I crossed the road, walked straight up to the house and knocked on the now opened fly screen. I waited but a radio from inside was drowning out my knocking, so I rang the bell.
A figure walked up the hall towards the door and pushed open the screen. She had an oven glove on one hand, and still wore her uniform, and her badge said ‘Margaret’. It was the lady from the station. I felt the colour drain from me, and struggled to get words out.
‘Can I help you?’ She had a warm smile and nicely applied make-up.
‘Yes, my name is Anaya and I’m from Denmark. I am an artist trying to bring my work to people, for I cannot afford a gallery.’ I was pretty pleased with my accent, even if it was a little ropey at first.
‘Did I just see you at the station?’
I felt my hands shaking. ‘I think, maybe yes, I was there with my friends. We all show our work around the place. I live in Sydney but I’m trying to sell work further afield.’
‘What did you do to your face, Anaya?’ She spoke slowly to help me with my accent.
‘White-water rafting.’
I decided to try the oldest trick in the book; but she seemed kind and I felt sure it would work. ‘Could I trouble you for, please, a glass of water?’
‘Eh, yes, hang on.’ She took her foot away from the fly screen, causing it to ping shut. ‘Oh, sorry.’
I opened it again.
‘Come in, then and just wait there, I’ll get you a glass.’
I was anxious to look around and see some phot
os maybe, but the other rooms were too far down the hall, and she was back in a second. I smiled and gulped the water.
‘That better?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’ve been walking around for hours.’ I examined her face for signs of my own as I drank from her glass.
‘Have you seen someone about your cuts? That one above the eye looks bad.’
I dragged out the last of the water, convinced that we had similarly high cheekbones.
‘Yes, it’s OK really, looks worse than it is, that’s all. So, you are a nurse?’
‘Yes, in the city hospital. Just come off a shift. So, what are your paintings?’
‘Well, a mixture, but I need to spread them out somewhere.’
‘Uh-huh. Listen, if you were to come back later maybe, but I’ve got to get lunch on, my husband and I are going back into town. Sorry, it’s not a good time.’
I felt all my powers of concentration had gone on my accent and trying to appear calm, and therefore I was not in full possession of my usual charm, personality and ability to control the situation. An oven-timer went off in the background.
‘Hang on.’ She ran down the hall, and I took a couple of steps inside and swung my head round the door, trying to take in the room and any clues. There were two photos above the fire but I couldn’t make them out. I moved quickly back to my folder. She came back, looking more agitated.
‘Like I said, I’m sorry, but now is a bad time.’
I looked at her, willing her to recognise me. She didn’t feel like my mother, although I had no idea what that would feel like; she felt like a stranger, and her eyes were blue, while mine were green. I realised that meant nothing after thinking about it, but I was at odds over what to do next.
A man walked up the drive with a Border collie behind him, sniffing around.
‘OK, thank you, not to worry,’ I said politely.
‘Yes, sorry, dear.’
I looked for signs of worry or suspicion in her face, but she had quickly moved on, and began talking to her husband about some hosepiping and did he have any joy. The man went to the station wagon and rummaged in the boot.
‘G’day,’ he said, as he walked past.
‘Yeah, hi there,’ I said, dropping the accent. I swung my folder over my shoulder and walked away.
The pub was fuller than when I last had been there. A few younger men played pool, and two women ate lunch.
‘Is there a phone?’ I asked speedily. The barman brought one out from under the counter.
First I dialled the backpackers’ and asked if there were any messages for me. The reception guy told me my friend Jim had left a note for me. I asked him to read it. He sighed and said they didn’t usually do that, but I begged him, told him I was in a spot.
‘“Kerry, got your message, can’t come to Ferny Hills, been some car trouble, got to go to garage. Disaster. Plus some news from Sydney. Meet back here at four, like we said. Jim.”’
‘If you see him, can you please tell him that I got the message?’
He sighed a bigger sigh and I hung up. I turned round; a man was waiting to use the phone.
I got out the piece of paper with the phone number of the house I’d just been in and dialled the number.
The husband answered. ‘Hello.’
I felt sick. ‘Can I speak to Margaret, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Kerry.’
‘Maggie! It’s yours!’
I heard her ask, ‘Who is it?’ and then she came to the phone. ‘Hello, who’s speaking?’
I detected concern and slight panic. ‘It’s me.’
‘Who?’
‘You know, don’t you?’
The bloody fruit-machine jingle went off in the background and the boys around it cheered. I had never imagined it to be like this.
‘No, I don’t. How can I help you?’
‘By putting me in touch with Madeline Thomson, my mother.’
She was silent, although I could make out the slight mouthing of words to her husband.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, I’m putting down the phone.’
I cupped my hands round the receiver, trying to block out pub noise and cover what I was about to say. ‘Now, this is what is going to happen. Unless you take me to my mother, I will kill myself but leave a letter for the local paper and contact my radio friend, so everyone will know the truth one way or another.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘In the Fern, down the road.’
‘She doesn’t want to know you, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, she can tell me that to my face.’
Someone leant over me and ordered a roast-chicken lunch.
‘I’ll call you back.’
‘I mean it, I’ll do it, I have already prepared a letter.’ The line went dead. I passed the phone to the meathead behind me.
I ordered a whisky, drank it straight down and waited for the phone to be free. The man made a quick phone call to order a taxi, and the second he put the receiver down, it rang again. The barman answered.
‘It’s mine!’ I grabbed it.
‘Is that Kerry?’ This time it was another voice.
‘Yes, who are you?’
‘I’m your auntie Carol.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m your mum’s sister.’
‘Who was Margaret?’
‘That’s our eldest sister, Margaret Mary; she’s very protective of your mam. Now listen, Kerry, this is important’ – I was reeling from the shock of speaking to my very first self-confessed blood relative and the use of ‘your mam’ in her sentence – ‘your mam is not very well at the moment. She’s had a hysterectomy and is just out of hospital yesterday, so she should be taking it easy, and I’ll be honest – she doesn’t want to meet you, she’s terrified.’
‘Tell her not to worry, tell her I won’t be trouble if she meets me.’
‘Well, I’m going to bring her to meet you, OK?’
‘Oh my God, oh my God, I mean.’ I wanted to grab someone in the bar and tell them.
‘But listen carefully. Once she meets you, then that’s it, finished, OK?’
‘OK, fine, anything.’ I didn’t care, I just needed a fix of her. Once in my life would do.
‘Now, do you know Brisbane at all?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s a pub down at the water, off Rowan Avenue on Shore Walk, right at the water, on the corner. It’s called the Last Drop. Meet me there at six o’clock, OK, pet?’
‘Yes, I will, OK.’ I didn’t have my notepad out but I didn’t need to. I would remember those words for ever.
‘And don’t expect too much.’
‘I won’t, I don’t,’ I said, lying.
I put down the phone and wondered how on earth I could contain myself for the next five hours, and started by ordering another beer, staring ahead. People nudged me as the bar filled up with workers ordering food, and going on and on about their fucking ‘chooks’.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
* * *
EVERYTHING I WAS feeling was new. It was the most bizarre and totally amazing feeling I had ever experienced in my life. I was so excited and happy, ecstatically happy, nervous, but bursting with complete and utter joy.
I immediately decided not to drink again until later – I didn’t want to be too drunk to forget everything – but I didn’t know what to do in the meantime. The pub was a trap, I decided, and left.
Outside in the street, as I walked down to the train platform, I wanted to stop strangers and tell them, I was so high and so sure that my answer was near, that there was an end in sight to my oddness. I had actually heard the voices of two of my mother’s sister. It was mind-blowing.
Back at the backpackers’, it was hard to be around people. I needed to be in a place of my own to sit it out and hear some music and have a glass of wine that I’d make last in these special circumstances. I tried to find out where the others were at recept
ion. The man wasn’t sure, but he thought they were taking the car to a garage and trying to get a rental car. I went to my bunk and lay down, but it was impossible to rest. I had four more hours to kill. I wanted to call an old friend back home, a girl I grew up with, and the only other person apart from my grandfather that I’d ever spoken to about my plan to find my mother. I decided against it, thinking it would seem odd, given that I hadn’t spoken to her for six years, plus she’d be asleep.
I decided to shower and get changed to kill another half-hour. That meant three and a half to go, but I’d be at the pub on Shore Walk an hour before – so that meant only two and a half hours, and it would take me half an hour to get there if I walked, so that meant two hours. I would lie on my bunk for another half an hour, hoping that Jim would return and come with me. I waited as long as I could, but left around three thirty, leaving another note for Jim.
Jim,
Waited but had to go. Think I found my answer! MY MOTHER!!! Meeting her down at the riverside at six. See you later tonight; tell me where you will be.
K x
The Last Drop was an old English-looking pub with small, yellowish, mottled-glass windows along the front. I went in and ordered a Coke, wanting to pace myself. I wanted to tell the barman my story but restrained myself. I looked at a clock above the bar every minute, willing the hands forward. I moved my seat so I could look out of the window at the spot where in a while I would see my mother arriving. I tried to process everything but it was impossible, as it was incomparable with anything before it.
The last hour was unbearable; I walked outside up and down the quay, then gave up and came back inside and ordered a large glass of white wine, reapplied my lipstick for about the tenth time, and started oversmoking. I put a song on the jukebox and asked the man behind the bar to turn it up.
Time moved more quickly once I’d ordered the wine and I found the song that I would play to mark the occasion: Jimmy Ruffin’s ‘What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted’. I sat on a stool by a tall table with a window view, as the song belted out. I felt all its words:
‘I know I’ve got to find, some kind of peace of mind …’
The Naked Drinking Club Page 33